


Vengeful Hearts

by jrdexex



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: AU, F/F, F/M, GAY! GAY! GAY!, Mild Angst, Multi, Political Drama (tm)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-04-21 14:27:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14286897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jrdexex/pseuds/jrdexex
Summary: Sing, O Muse, of the Ferelden tree, formed by the swift, spinning, fingers of the cruel Maker. They laugh at human plans, twisting them into a painful shape all their own, the bonds of family, friends, and foes, that tie the flies of Ferelden together. See their fear, for the tightest tied are the highest humans, the children of Teryns, and the sons of Queens. They are the prey most tangled, who struggle hardest to escape the hangman’s knot of their own making.The fools do not yet know: the best way to dissolve their bonds is blood.





	1. The Forge, A Prologue

Air felt heavy in the blacksmith's' shop. The heat washed over Teryn Loghain’s face and he stifled a disgusted sneer. He wasn't used to the cramped inside of a smithy. In fact, he had never made a tool himself. In his youth, he preferred to steal others hard labor and focus on the martial arts. Now, having risen significantly in the world, he merely ordered it from his land’s skilled artisans. He smooths his face into a polite enough neutral, ignoring the squelch of mud beneath his well-polished boots, as he steps over the wooden door frame and into the back room of the unmanned store counter.  
  
He clears his throat loudly grabbing the attention of the blacksmith, who was leaning over an anvil, with his back to the door. The broad-shouldered bulk of the man-made Loghain guesses that he could not pass through the door without brushing the sides of it.he grizzled man puts his work down and fully turns to face his Lord, bowing politely. Loghain appreciated the gesture. Not all of his subjects had yet accepted the new ruler, a former freeholder like themselves. They reserved their polite gazes to his wife and ignored him as a rather bland fixture next to their lady. Loghain tilts his head in an acknowledgment of the man's courtesy and asks, "Is it finished yet?"  
  
“No, my lord,” The man swallows, dropping Loghain’s direct gaze. His calloused hands pick at one another, hesitating at bursting a blister. Instead, one hand grips a finger of the other pulls, and Loghain hears it pop. He suppresses a cringe, eyes tightening in an almost-squint and mouth in a strained straight line. The blacksmith looks embarrassed. With an uncomfortable smile he continues, "Well, strictly speaking, I said I would be done today and I am. It is done, but…”  
  
 “But?” Loghain prompts, tearing his gaze away from the man’s hands, and back to his scruffy face. His eyebrows furrow, eyes narrowing.  
  
 The man quickly meets his gaze, then drops it again before saying quietly, "'Tis an irregular make. The edge curves, and the blade’s too short to be a sword, as you requested.”  
  
Loghain takes the man’s shoulder and smiles encouragingly. “I’ll take it. Perhaps it will prove a good gift. ” He says firmly, making sure to enunciate each word. He lets go, and the man seems bolstered, meeting his gaze again with a returning smile.  
  
Loghain continues into a more familiar territory, asking the man a question that he would be able to reply yes to without shame, “Have you the technique down, Cardiff?”  
  
“I understand it, yes, but forging a blade with darkspawn blood… it's costly. Darkspawn blood is rare in these parts,” The man says doubtfully, although Loghain speculates that he caught a glimpse of a calculating look, wondering how much he would be compensated for such delicate and groundbreaking work.  
  
“It is worth whatever cost you choose,” Loghain says, making Cardiff’s eyes shine, although there is only a hint of a pleased look on his face. “These blades are forever poisoned, a small cut kills your enemies. You’ve surpassed the art of dwarves, Glynn.” Loghain’s final words ring as he makes the pronouncement.  
  
“My Lord, only by your order did I have the idea.” He says modestly.  
“Your skill is what brought it to life.” Loghain insists. He wants the man to feel good about his work. Loghain hopes his words will make the man’s loyalty unwavering in this secret endeavor.  
  
He shifts, looking at his feet, then asks the war hero, “Who will you give it to?”  
  
Loghain thinks that he overdid it, and allows the man to change the subject. “The young Cousland," Loghain says, meditatively, the idea fully forming in his mind. A gift. He thinks, eyes sinking into the blade’s inky darkness as he muses.  
  
"Why?" Glenn, says earnestly, his nervousness having faded into a quiet confidence. His hands had stopped fidgeting. Loghain doesn’t smile when he looks up, but his mouth twitches.  
  
“A man may plant a tree for many reasons, would you ask him which one matters most?” Loghain says cryptically--half serious and half in jest.  
  
Glynn’s eyebrow raises a few hairs, but he lets the comment pass with a shake of his head. Loghain takes the unusually wide sheath of the dagger, from across the room, then straps it to his belt, taking the dagger and sliding it out of Cardiff’s view. Loghain turns to walk out of the little blacksmith into the fading sunset of Gwaren.


	2. Blood Oath

It was a special occasion in the Teyrn of Highever.  A well-dressed crowd gathered in the chantry, silks, and furs shining in the candlelight. It was the best place in the castle to make a spectacle and one that the guests would not litter.  To reinforce the guest’s good behavior at midnight, the Teyrn, a spectacular party planner, put the food and wine a small walk away, in the castle’s ballroom.

 

Sitting in the front of the cold stone room, the two children of the Teyrn kneel, watching their elders pontificate in the time-honored ceremony.

 

Something draws the attention of the younger sibling, who elbows her teenage brother and hisses, “Ferrgus  ! Stop tha’!” The girl’s wide eyes glare as she looks past her elder brother, and across the aisle.

 

A vase tilts  dangerously  to one side. She doesn’t dare to  fully  turn and look at him, but her eyes strain to look at his face anyways, in consternation. The teenage boy has no such fears. The ceremony in front of them takes all the crowd’s focus on the two older men in the front of the hall.

 

“What?” He says, turning and bending his head down to whisper in her ear. His eyes twinkle in mischief, he knows exactly what his sister means. The ornate vase wobbles closer to the edge of the stained glass window. It sits a mere one row in front of the brother and sister, in a small alcove with a window surrounding the far side of it.

 

“I knew it’s you! Momma says you’re nae allowed ta use magic!” She, as subtle as she can, nods at the vase, which suddenly straightens. “‘  Specially  na now, with so many people!” She adds,  quietly  lilting voice  mildly  mollified.

 

“Spoilsport,” Fergus complains, eyes rolling, the tedium of hearing his father make the speech he had been practicing for weeks returning  swiftly.

 

“I dinna want you to get taken away..” She says with a sincere frown.  Fergus’ shoulders tense, but he forces himself to smile at her,  gently  squeezing her shoulder.

 

“Even if I’m found out,” He whispers, “Father would not let me go so easily. Arl Howe, too. You see what’s happening up there, right? A blood oath to bring peace to our families. Not long ago we didn’t get along, but now we are friends. You know, Arl Howe is one of the kenniest warlords in Ferelden, right?” He says, simplifying the long feud for his little sister. She was not one for history, even if she had been old enough to know about the feud’s severity. He says all this gently, allowing a soft familiar accent to trace his words. His voice is courtesy of his strict Ferelden tutor who insisted that their native northern accent was ‘uncivilized’--not quite enough Ferelden, not quite enough Free MMarches.Fergus thought it was nonsense, but had the lilt beaten out of him regardless.

 

His sister returns to looking at the pair of men standing on the dais, having finished reciting their long and boring vows of friendship.  They were getting into the real part of the ceremony, and the crowd seems to catch their breath all at once, and Fergus can see courtiers shift forward in their uncomfortable kneeling position.

 

Teyrn Bryce Cousland smiles  warmly  at Arl Howe, who looks grim. The teyrn slashes a cut into his hand, then offers the sharp blade to Howe, who follows in the ancient tradition.  They then shake their bleeding hands, then turn to the crowd of nobility, with their hands clasped together.  The nobles begin standing, then clapping, faces smiling in approval at the new alliance. Eleanor, the sibling's mother, looks stoic, from behind the men. Her face portrays none of her previous disapproval at this new relationship.  The statue of Andraste stands next to Eleanor, who gazes  serenely  down at the ‘barbaric’ ceremony. The space in front of it left a  shockingly  impious amount of room for people to stand in front and make speeches.

 

The two men release their grips and turn, entering the shadows as they walk past the statue, and out of view from the people cheering below.  When they reach the bottom of the staircase and emerge out of the doors, they begin to direct the crowd flow into the nearby castle ballroom.  Eleanor follows after, leaving the statue in its nook, more oft used for a political announcement than worship.

 

“Moyra,” Fergus addresses his little sister at a normal volume as the adults in the room begin to form circles to talk, “I believe  Teyrn Loghain is here.” His eyes crinkle, knowing this will excite her.

 

Her eyes shine in delight. “What?! No way!” Moyra’s arm grabs his long-sleeved shirt, rumpling the stiff weave with intensity. He doesn’t seem to mind it, his unstyled hair a testament to the more casual atmosphere of Highever.

 

“Mother wanted to keep it a surprise.” He grins. “A birthday gift, I suppose.”

 

“And Anora?”  Anora and Moyra had exchanged letters from time to time, but Anora’s presence at Denerim and her court training with her father had prevented them from ever meeting. Her chubby face beams.  She already guesses the answer, her hands grab at his forearm and squeeze in excitement, too small to wrap around it fully. Her eyes shut in anticipation, muttering, “Please-Please-Please, oh Please, Andraste!!”

 

“Of courrrrse.” Fergus draws out the word, his smile not quite meeting his eyes. _His_ guest wouldn’t be so pleasant to talk to.  He’d much prefer spending more time with his dog-obsessed little sister than the spoiled Bryland girl.

 

She squeals. Fergus ruffles her hair, and she protests. “Stop that!” Moyra pouts, and Fergus thinks she looks much like a sulking puppy after being scolded for peeing in the castle.

 

“Oh, me wee sister canna take a little hair muss? ‘Fer a nice view o’r the room?” He teases.

 

Her face puckers, eyebrows scrunching. She  inquisitively  holds up her arms to allow him to pick her up.  He kneels down and turns, allowing her to ride pig-a-back, with her legs around his neck, and her a head taller than almost everyone else in the room.  Her skirts  are pushed  a bit back for the convention, but Couslands were not ones to follow old, far-away, court etiquette.

 

“There!  Just  like the pictures!” She points, hands turning Fergus’ flaming red hair in the direction of a particular noble in the busy room.  He seemed to have  just  finished a conversation with Arl Howe, who was standing next to the window and the previously precariously leaning vase, his fingers softly tracing its rim. Fergus jerks away, changing direction to head over to a young blond girl who Moyra guessed was Anora.

 

“Going, Going…” Fergus huffs, narrating to hide his concern. He jogs over to the two finely dressed nobility, forcing himself not to look in Howe's direction.  The dark haired man raises his eyebrows at the young lord Cousland, and Fergus dips into a far less than required bow. 

 

“I would greet you properly, Teyrn, but I am afraid I would drop my little sister. It is a pleasure to meet you both.” He says formally, smoothing the soft northern lilt of his voice to a stiffer southern one. Fergus extends his hand to Loghain and shakes it, then kisses Anora’s with a smile.

 

“Fergus and Moyra Cousland, I presume,” Loghain says with an ungracious nod. “A pleasure.”

 

Fergus lets a squirming Moyra off of his back, kneeling. She curtsies first to Loghain, and then to Anora, a girl a couple of years her elder. She smiles at both of them,  clearly  excited to meet them.

 

Anora drops a perfectly formal, if less deep, curtsy back at Moyra. Fergus can’t help but pay attention to Anora’s shining hair and beautiful blue eyes.

 

“Welcome to Highever, Teyrn. Miss Mac Tir.” Fergus says. “I hope your journey was uneventful?”

 

“As uneventful as your well-maintained lands would warrant. The Seawolf is as fierce a warrior on land as at sea, or so it seems.” Loghain says, making Moyra glow. Fergus knows Moyra admired her mother greatly, and that hearing her hero compliment her Mother in that way made was the reason for her broad, sunny smile.

 

Teyrn Bryce Cousland approaches the small circle and smiles. “Favoring my wife with a compliment, while ‘tis I who rule the lands? I am wounded.” He jests, putting his bandaged hand across his heart and dips, feigning a dramatic fall. His warm charisma and genuine nobility had won him many friends in Ferelden. Bryce's flashy, ornate sword and scabbard looked rather askew compared to Loghain’s undecorated, easily accessible daggers.

 

Loghain seems in no mood for humor, saying, “You are a capable administrator and tactician.” Moyra's still smiling, but Fergus’ lips quickly slide down into a small frownand stay there for a long moment.  However, Loghain doesn’t focus on him, watching Bryce, who seems to ignore the slight and matches Moyra in a slightly more strained smile.

 

“Come now, Teyrn, there is no need to stay on such formality. Or dour looks,” He teases, touching Loghain’s arm, which stiffens. He pauses, retracting his arm, and Fergus guesses that Bryce is waiting for Loghain to respond with a smile or something positive. Loghain does not.

 

With what Fergus can recognize from many years of living with Bryce, he knows that his father's hiding disappointment and annoyance. Fergus remembers seeing that look often when Bryce was talking to very irritated templars and Chantry members. But Bryce tries again, insisting, “We are celebrating!” He says expansively, vaguely  waving his undamaged hand at the party in the ballroom. Servants are pouring out the good wine, the sound of upbeat lutes permeate the undecorated celebration. A few couples dance together, while many more watch and eat from the tables that groaned with food. Moyra’s looking at this, wanting to go over and eat but constrained by hosting to remain.

 

“I cannot make merry when my king is missing,” Loghain says, eyes glinting icy cold.

 

Moyra squirms  uncomfortably. The rule, ‘Children are seen and not heard’, had been successfully drilled into her head, and she has little way to escape the uncomfortable situation. Fergus can tell that she wants to talk to Loghain and Anora but hasn’t thought of a way to escape politely without ignoring that prime rule--she plaintively looks up to Fergus for some help. 

 

“King Maric is probably simply delayed in his return to Ferelden.” Bryce folds his arms. 

 

“Delayed for three months?” Loghain narrows his eyes at Bryce, suspicion apparent in his face. “I find that… unlikely.” Loghain says, striding closer to the Teyrn, a dark panther, stalking towards its prey.


	3. Two Honest Men

Bryce looks like he’s considering what to say, calculating the odds, but Fergus steps in,  softly  tugging his father out of Loghain’s range.

 

“It’s unfortunate that our king has been gone for so long.” He says  loudly, redirecting Loghain’s focus to him.  He hopes that he will be more of a neutral voice in this discussion, and he continues in a soothing voice, “As I recall, we have supported your efforts to find him. We, too, want to know where he has gone, and if he is not to return, what to do, then.  However,  I believe  my father is right. Now is not the time to be thinking about such heavy topics. A feud has ended! My little sister has finally met Miss Mac Tir, whom she has been  simply  begging to meet for weeks. And you, Teyrn, whom she admires for your help in restoring Ferelden to independence.”  Fergus grins, sensing an opportunity to embarrass his sister and completely break off the tension, and continues after a pause, “The number of times I’ve told her the tale of your Night Elves company and the battle West Hill? Quite astounding.”

 

Moyra’s mouth works at air,  flagrantly  ignoring the prohibitions against gawping in court. Her face  promptly  turns red. “Fergus!” She protests, in an embarrassed shock that could not  be feigned. She buries her face into his chest.

 

Fergus chuckles, eyes twinkling at Anora, who smiles as well.  Bryce sends Fergus an approving nod, once his attention shifts away from Anora, a second or so after it would  be judged  polite. He crooks a finger at a servant, and  quietly  murmurs a request to the elf. The server nods with a smile and disappears into the crowd. Loghain’s eyes soften, eyes fixed on the youngest Cousland.  His mouth’s creased frown lines straighten into an almost smile, like a wild animal stumbling along one of its cubs in an unexpected place.

 

“Anora, too, has been asking to meet you.” Loghain addresses her,  lightly  touching Moyra’s shoulder, to draw her attention. “  Perhaps  you two could get to know each other better, without the company of your parents.” 

 

Fergus’ mouth twitches into a pleased half-smile, Loghain came to the conclusion that he had been pushing for; so that he did not have to  directly  suggest it himself. The elven server re-appears with a few goblets of wine, that he offers to both Teyrns, and Fergus. Moyra extends a hand to Anora, who takes it with a small smile. Moyra pulls her,  quickly  disappearing into the crowd.

* * *

 

“My apologies, Teyrn,” Loghain says. “Maric is a close friend, I’ve taken his disappearance badly. I’m  deeply  concerned that Cailan, should the worst happen, prove a weak King. He’s fond of women and drink, even at his tender age. A man like that could prove  easily  manipulated by a pretty face.”

 

Bryce doesn’t so much as raise an eyebrow or twitches, calm as a still pond, he replies, “Then,  perhaps, you should be the one to control the pretty faces around him, Teyrn. I know no one more loyal to Ferelden, and I myself am too busy to meddle in court politics.” Bryce says warmly. His son slips to the corners of Loghain's vision, and into a respectful silence, light fingers taking a cup and drinking the sweet wine within.

 

Loghain's surprised Bryce refrains from mentioning the common knowledge that Rowan Guerrin, the love of Loghain’s life, had married King Maric. After that, the two seemed to be on extremely cold terms. Giving Loghain the Teyrn of Gwaren, the least well kept but most gilded title in Ferelden, and on top of that, never asking Loghain to court. Loghain had heard that all too frequently from other nobles, especially from those who could least afford the money Loghain had required of them to find Maric. “Yes…” Loghain says slowly, and changes the topic of conversation. “You are making many changes to this Teyrn, Cousland. I am interested to see the results. Your minimal taxing and large army seem to be a bit contrary.”

 

“We live  simply, here in Highever, Loghain.  Our,  admittedly  dated, dressage and crude food are  perhaps  lowly and simple, but they are cost-effective.” Bryce says modestly, but with a pleased smile. 

 

“It seems to draw your people’s loyalty, regardless, " Loghain says, allowing a respect color his tone.  _If only it were so easy for me_ , Loghain thinks.

 

“I learned everything from my father. He lived as a traveler, like much of my family remains to this day. He was a wise man, and seeing how much Highever prospered under its own governance, he compared it to other places and came up with a few ideas to change to make my rule a pleasant burden to bear. It may be a bit unusual, but  I think  it works well enough.” _Bryce seems genuinely nice,_ Loghain thinks with surprise, and his eyes lock with the man in front of him.  _Let's not get carried away-- false friends are much worse than the ever-blunt 'better than you’ Banns._

 

However, to play along Loghain adjusts his tone to match the other Teyrn, accusatory suspicion no longer bubbling at the back of his voice, saying casually, “Your treatment of mages is  certainly  unusual.” Loghain brings up Bryce’s treatment of the rogue mage, Malcolm Hawke and his noble wife, Leandra Amell. He had allowed them shelter, safe passage, and helped them hide, much to the templar’s and Chantry's chagrin.

 

“I’ve no ill-will to mages. In fact, why treat people who can set things on fire with a thought  badly, hm?” Bryce shrugs, putting his hands in the air. Bryce's warm, affable tone doesn't waver for a second. 

 

“If one  simply  did as the Chantry willed and turned in dangerous apostate mages, you would not have the problem of fire flinging mages running rampant in your Teyrn.” Loghain raises an eyebrow and his lips twitch upwards, in a movement uncoordinated with his mind, into a pleased half-smirk.

 

“Is that not an extreme solution, Loghain?” Bruce says, in a rather teasing sing-song. His head cocks to one side, like a curious mabari, waiting for their human to speak.

 

“Would you have Ferelden be like Orlais, then, accepting apostates, having them in our courts? Letting possible maleficar near our king?” He asks, feeling his hostility melt away, his tone light. The discussion was as old as the Templars themselves; the issue was not pressing.

 

“Mages will keep being born, Loghain. One cannot make them extinct. I will not force my people or anyone in my lands to bow to that outdated Chantry law.” Bryce waves a hand as if to shoo away an annoying  fly.

 

“Your lands are part of Ferelden if you recall, and under royal rule. Your ignoring of Chantry law, laws that the king agrees with, make problems for the rest of us.” Loghain slips into a slight lecture. He cuts it short when he recognizes the ‘Who’s going to make me’ look that Cousland levels at him. It reminded Loghain of his stubborn Maric, with his chin tilted just slightly up, nose in the air, and a lone eyebrow raised. Loghain finds himself almost amused at the familiar look, instead of incredibly annoyed. He ‘hmphs’ with a slight shake of his head.

 

“It is your, and the crown’s problem if you do not treat mages like normal citizens, Loghain.  By hunting them down, you create bonds of brotherhood who may not see eye to eye, but against a common enemy, unite their forces.” Bryce is not swayed in the slightest. 

 

Loghain replies with the common understanding of the situation, “Templars would invoke the right of annulment and slaughter them if they dared.  The reason mages do not run Ferelden is because the common noble, supported by the common men of Ferelden, stand united against the mages. If they  are treated like us, they would  quickly  rise to power.”

 

“Ferelden is not Orlais or the Tevinter Imperium.  Loyalty _means_ something here. Everyone knows that, even mages and elves.” Bryce counters  quickly, and  Loghain revises his first impression of the man. Cousland seemed to be a quick-witted, deep thinking intellectual, which was quite rare in the warrior caste of nobility. _No_ , Loghain thinks, looking at the silent Fergus who had been absorbing the conversation. He hadn’t noticed Fergus was standing right next to him, _both Couslands_ _._

 

“You’re right,” Loghain says simply. “But loyalty to those of their kind will always win against weaker others.”

 

“Let us agree to disagree on this point, Teyrn. Come, let us enjoy the party.”  Bryce  lightly  steers Loghain away from their small corner and deeper into the party, leaving a silent Fergus behind.

 

“You seem passionate on the subject of mages, Teyrn. Is there something that you’re hiding…?” Loghain queries, deciding to prod a bit.

 

Bryce seems to access him, looking at Loghain for a long moment before saying, “My mother was a mage if you must know. William, my father, was a wandering mercenary, and a bit of a rebel. They never married, and he rarely spoke of her. But her views on mages.. seemed to have stuck to him, and his on myself.”

 

“Ah, I see. I apologize if I implied anything...untoward,” Loghain says (somewhat insincerely).  They have weaved through the crowd to meet with another lord, Arl Eamon of Redcliffe, and brother-in-law to the king, Maric Theirin.

 

Bryce pauses for a second before moving into the range where Eamon's attention would be focused, “And Loghain…? Worry no. I will not vie for the throne against Eamon or Cailan.  I’m,  frankly,” Bryce ‘hems’ for a moment, looking for the right words, “...not ready to deal with national politics. Others may have the regency if they like. If my children wish, they may marry into the Theirin name, and take it from there. For now, I’m happy with my Teryn. I think  Eamon…or you, or both, serving as regents until young Cailan comes of age should be the best solution if Maric is  truly...gone.”

 

“I agree completely. Acting  quickly  is necessary to prevent chaos. When I return to Denerim… we will inform Cailan of the news.” Loghain says  formally, nodding. Eamon seems to have stopped conversing with Arl Howe. Loghain looks at him,  carefully.

 

“All of  the news!” Eamon booms, introducing himself into the conversation unasked. He startles Loghain more than Loghain would like to admit. He had always suspected Eamon didn’t like him for some reason and felt uneasy around the well-built, handsome, man who looked like a vengeful warrior sent from the Maker.

 

“There’s...more?” Loghain says, with a questioning eyebrow lift. He refuses to back away from Eamon’s  close proximity  and loud voice. He thinks darkly, _Eamon could probably  break me like a wishbone_.

 

Arl Howe, decided this wasa conversation to listen to rather than take part of, settles on a nearby seat and sips some wine.  

 

“I’ve married Isolde!” Eamon says, face breaking into a huge grin, wrinkling his face so his eyes almost looked shut.

 

_No one really  smiles like that,_ Loghain thinks. He pointedly remains silent.  _Isolde's a traitor to Orlais, and shouldn't be put in power._

 

“Congratulations!!” Bryce has a more toned down look of pleasure in his face. He wraps Eamon in a hug. “I wish you the very best, my friend!"

 

“Although I’ve already got her,” He adds in a whisper in Eamon’s ear right before he pulls away from the hug. Eamon swats his arm.

 

“May you live long and happy lives in service to the crown,” Loghain says dryly, leaning on the windowsill next to Howe. He looks at Eamon with a wariness that rivals a lone wolf staring down an angry elk.

 

“Yes… _outlaw_ , as should you.” Eamon roars, every inch the outraged noble. His eyes blaze with an intensity Loghain thought  was unwarranted. “Maric chose poorly--" He snaps, about to fling himself into a long tirade.

 

“Gentlemen!” Bryce raises his voice, interrupting the squabble. “Please do settle yourselves.” He says, voice dropping to a normal volume.

 

Teyrna Eleanor, attracted by the noise, slips into the circle. “Oh, Bryce, must you stop a brawl? I would  happily  extricate you from it. _And,_ " She adds with a smirk, "everything else.” 

 

Eamon  quickly  blusters some inane compliment, and the three break away and begin another conversation.

 

Loghain doesn’t miss the deepening grimace that carves itself into Arl Howe’s face. The man had said nothing in the heated proceedings. Loghain guesses that he disapproves of the marriage proceedings as well.  Before Loghain can open his mouth to commiserate, Howe nods a curt goodbye at himbefore following Cousland.

 

_As usual,_ Loghain thinks with his own grimace,  _Doesn't he ever tire of being the man's right hand?_ _Damn politics!_ He thinks.  He thinks of heading to a server and demanding more of the too-sweet wine, but decides to head over to Fergus, who is also sitting alone.

 

They sit together  quietly, watching the  happily  dancing couples, a couple chatting groups of girls. A few squires look at the girls and whisper to themselves.

 

“Tired, your lordship?” Fergus asks, after a comfortable silence.

 

“You have no idea.” Loghain murmurs.  The silence stretches on, the music and the laughter blend together in a unified soft nothing, like the sea tides nearby.

 

“I miss Nathaniel.” Loghain’s unsure if the boy’s speaking more to him or himself, his voice is so quiet. “Having a friend at these things makes it more fun.”

  

Loghain hums his agreement. A long time ago, just  having Maric there smoothed Loghain’s feathers and tamed his sharp tongue.

 

“Moyra’s off...and Father’s set me up to deal with Habren.” The way he says her name makes Loghain get the impression that the girl is rather unpleasant. Loghain grunts, half-listening.

 

“I swear to Andraste, I’ve seen her _lick_ a bloody animal pelt, and Moyra says she hears animal screams from her room at night when she went to South Reach.” Fergus curls his lip and winces when a pretty girl whom Loghain doesn’t care to know seems to head towards him.

  

Loghain decides to extricate the unfortunate lordling, and (more  importantly  ) himself from the damned party and he asks Fergus show him to his room.

 

With a conciliatory smile at Habren, Fergus takes Loghain’s arm and leads him into the warm night air. His hands take the sensitive part of Loghain’s underarm, and Loghain tenses under the touch. No one had ever dared been that warm with him, since Maric. 

 

_And Maric was gone._


	4. On Little Pawns

Anora holds her nose, trying not to sneeze  loudly  in the dark, cramped crawlspace. Pinpricks of light show through the cracked wooden floorboards. Somehow, this was not what she imagined for the most powerful family of Ferelden. Their manners were rough, their castle  was unrefined, and their food was unpalatable. It was also in a much smaller quantity than she expected for such a large gathering.  Terynirs Cousland were quite iron-fisted with their money, she thought  bitterly, stomach rumbling  quietly.  It was nothing like Denerim’s imported splendor, intrigue, deception, and most  importantly, spices. The food in the castle tasted like salted sawdust and Anora had been unable to force anything down. Her father did so with a straight face, army rations were about the same quality, she supposed.

“I know every place in this castle.” Moyra’s grins, teeth showing everywhere in a simple honest expression. Her eyes don’t make much for reflection in the dim candlelight. They were warm brown, as placid as the old nag Anora had kept for far too long; the horse she grew up learning to ride.

“Impressive.” She says, sounding  unusually  dry, as she covers up her unexpected rush of a smile. Anora eyes the small wineskin that the younger girl carried with her, wondering if she should ask for a sip.

“Why thank yer.” Moyra purrs, pleased. “We've got a good view of the party from here, and can watch, if you like.”

“Sure,” Anora says  easily  , but she becomes uncomfortable with the silence that follows, thinking, _Couldn’t we_ _ just  watch the party at the party?_   She's too late. Moyra’s already stopped talking, pressing her cheek against the splinter-filled wood, one eye exposed to the light and party below.

Anora  quietly  wishes she was down there, flirting with Fergus, with his bright red hair, dancing blue eyes, and a tongue as smooth as silk. Instead, she was stuck with his younger, sneakier, and more awkward sister. She had no idea what to say to her,  all of  the other girls in court were distant with her, the noble girl with commoner blood.  They spoke in inane niceties and  mostly  smiled, keeping up the illusion that the noble houses of Ferelden got along. She hadn’t been as much accepted with them, as tolerated. She hadn’t spent years growing up with the nobility nearby. Instead, she stayed at home with her mother, learning the way of ruling, the dirt of rebuilding a noble house. And then, when her parent’s fights had ended, and cool ashes replaced the fire, Loghain had no home to return to.  Her mother had sent her away with him, and she had traveled with her father, the dark secret of Ferelden who acted as Maric's black knife.

Writing back to the Maker-cursed almost unreadable scribble had been more her Father’s idea than hers  .  He suggested that female companionship was a good thing, and if that female companion was a Cousland, all the better to nurture  .  The girl, who was staring down at the light and music of the party, had breezed past all social nicety Anora  was used  to and babbled in length.  In the eight-page missive, there were many things Anora wasn’t interested in, such as questions about her father, everything about training her new bear cub and  possibly  a wolf. Anora hadn’t been able to read that bit. Moyra had spilled something on it but had sent it anyway, which irked her.

_She’s really  _ _quite a child._ Anora thinks with a sneer, any magic from her soft brown eyes vanishing in Anora’s annoyance. _Spilled ink, and now dirt_ , Anora thinks with disgust. She refuses to play ‘spy’ and look down at the party, dirtying her face.  Father would tell her anything important that happened, she reasoned, which reminded her of the point of why she was here, to make friends.

“May I have some of your drink?” She whispers, playing along, and tapping on Moyra’s shoulder.  She  secretly  hopes that this hopeless youngest child wouldn’t result in spilled wine on Anora’s dress.

“Mmhm.” Moyra adjusts her posture so the strap of her wineskin falls to the floor so Anora can take it. It didn’t spill, and the leather bottle sloshes in an unappealing noise.

_Polite,_ Anora thinks, then emphasizes her own, “Thank you.”

“Mm.” Moyra grunts. The mead inside of it was  surprisingly  good, sweet, unlike the ‘refined’ wine of Denerim.  Anora mentally questions the Cousland parents in allowing a little girl to drink this much good wine but shrugs it off as a northern thing. Those same parents allowed her to have a bear cub, so a bit of mead was hardly a step up.

The drink warmed her throat  pleasantly, the spices reminding Anora of mulled wine from home, and her mother. Anora shakes her head, forcing her mind to stop wandering in that direction. Anora wonders what exactly was going on down there to capture the girl’s attention so  thoroughly  . Especially since she had  been assured  of the girl’s strong interest in her.  _No, her interest’s not in me, it's in Father!_ Anora realizes with a surprised blink. _If so, what exactly is he doing to draw her attention so?_

“Er… is there any room?” She says, crouching to a kneel,  gingerly  crouching beside her.

 “Oh! Maker's erm…!” Moyra gets up, bashing her head against the ceiling. “Please, you’re a lady, and, you,” She blinks  rapidly  , trying to get her bearings again in the dark crawlspace. She smacks her face with a hand, and burbles on, “I’m being bad! I’m  really  happy to see you, Lady Anora! I’m  just  a-ah, So.. Talking! How was your journey?”  Anora wonders if Moyra’s seen something and  desperately  wants Anora not to know what was happening below. Anora’s now  curiously  hungry, to find out. Her politeness pulls her back from dropping to her knees, face to the floor.  She doesn’t think the girl’s as spastic as she first thought, and Anora doesn’t trust the kind words flowing from her lips that are so unlike any of her peers.

“Quiet enough. I rarely travel. Father says it is dangerous, alone.  Your land seems  remarkably  safe,” She replies, eyes focused to stare into Moyra’s so they don’t steal any glances at the ball below.

“Many of our freeholders train in weapons, so they can take care of the little threats,” Moyra says  casually.

“They can afford weapons?”Anora blurts, eyebrows shooting up.

“Yours cannot?” Now  equally  surprised, Moyra stares at Anora.

“Our freeholders struggle to feed themselves,” Anora says. She states an unfortunate norm in muddy, always raining, Ferelden.

Moyra gives Anora’s dress a long look, that Anora doesn’t interpret as related to the conversation, then says, “I see.”

Anora looks down at her traveling gown, miles away from Moyra’s dress in fit and decoration. Moyra’s dress looked common enough, a simple off-white homespun garment hanging loosely around her body. It looked coarse and was tied around with a belt and pockets. The garment looked like Teyrn Cousland’s shirt, and Anora suspects that this garment could last until Moyra could use it as a shirt herself, barring any rips. Her own dress was sky blue, fitted to her body with the appropriate stays and laces. Her hair was pinned tightly to her head by sparkling pins, while Moyra’s was tied back with a leather tie, a few curls spilling out above her ears. She didn’t see how the look was relevant to how Ferelden farmers lived but disliked the slightly critical tinge that she sensed in that once-over.

“Father says that my dress must always be beautiful if I’m to attract a husband,” She says, and a tinge of defensiveness laces the undertones of her prim comment.

“Huh? But...You’re a noble.” Moyra says. Anora privately wonders if the girl's a simpleton.

“Yes, and?”  Anora says, drawing out the last word, wondering what about the simple concept confused the girl  .  Most other noble girls she had met were also preening peacocks, trying to draw young Cailan’s eyes to their feathers.

“Is not the strength of your arms and your warrior class, enough to gain men’s attention?” Moyra says, in the manner that a member of one of the oldest established, powerful, noble family would. The simple confidence is alien to Anora.

“I’m…” Anora’s voice croaks, in a manner much unlike her. She sips the mead from the skin in her hands, and manages, “Not much a fighter,” Anora finishes.

“Ohhh,” Moyra says, “I can.. help you get better if you want before you go home.”  Anora guesses that the young girl next to thought that Anora was trying to be beautiful not out of choice, but a necessity, from a lack of training.

“It's all right.  Thank you,” Anora says, experience guessing that the girl’s intention was to either show-off or have a nice excuse to beat her bloody to ‘help’ her.

“So.. you’re  just  pretty for men? Isn’t that…” Moyra stops and trails off.

“Hm?” Anora hides her wince at the girl’s judgment and feigns misunderstanding. It made her head hurt, or perhaps it was the sweet mead, and absence of anything else in her stomach. Her knees ached from staying in place for too long.

“Er, dangerous? In a way?” Moyra says in a hesitant tone. 

“How so?”  She felt like she was falling short in front of this girl and she wanted to climb back down the ladder, and crawl into Loghain’s arms and hide  . She wonders if it would be effective on Cailan.  Perhaps  it could get past all the other vultures circling around him, hoping to pick something out of him. Her lips curl into a frown as she waits for Moyra to get her thoughts together and speak.

“Well… Father said that. Um.. its.. its. People can hurt you easier if you canna fight back.. or lead..” Anora forces a tapping foot still, the girl’s oration could use a lot of work, she thinks  unkindly. The crawlspace was growing more and more uncomfortably hot, and Anora moves away from Moyra. 

“I would have children once I’m married. That’s power, as well, stronger than mere weapons.” She replies, resettling her skirt and invisibly  rolling her eyes in the space.  Moyra reminds her off of some of the elder advisors to Maric, honorable nobles who kept on and on about the protective warrior nobility of Ferelden, how it was always duty _this_ , duty _that_. They were like the twilight mabari hounds of another age, baying after a long-gone master.

Celia looked shocked when Anora made the pronouncement that Antivan women, with their long hair, soft, unworked hands, their smiles, and poisoned cups had the right idea  . Her mother, who looked disgusted when Anora told her the plan to marry Cailan and become queen.  “ _Machinations,”_ she said,  tiredly  , like she had known this would be their ending for years, _“Go, be with your father_. _I’ve nothing left for you to learn. Your scheming is just  _ _like him.”_ Anora supposed she had seen it coming as well.  Her mother didn’t understand her love of books, politics, intrigue and pretty dresses;  just  as she didn’t understand her mother’s insistence on traditional weaponry, uncomfortable armor, and her heart’s tie to honor.

“I guess…But what if...you couldn’t or they didn’t get along? Or the man hurt you?” Anora’s mouth tightens in a thin line. Moyra’s innocent questioning was growing irritating to her nerves. _I’m not a fool! I’ve thought this out, child! Shut up!_ Anora’s thoughts rage, her face flushed from alcohol.

“I suppose I’d have to return home to my family.” She says, taking a deep breath and pinching her nose.  She had decided to reveal little of her plans and brush Moyra’s objections aside instead of yelling at the-- _little brat_ _. At least Father understands..._

“But what are your future plans, Moyra?  Surely  you must have better ones than mine, after pointing out such flaws in mine?” Anora says, with a triumphant smirk. _Finally, she’ll be on the defensive!_ Anora takes another swig of the mead and relaxes against the wall to watch Moyra respond, dirt on the wood now a forgotten thought. Her head's starting to feel strange, and fuzzy, and too late, she realizes the mead was stronger than she could handle. 

“I dunno! I’m nae the heir, like you o’ Fergus so I can do whatever I like once my training with Aldous and Mother  is done. T’will..take a long time, though.  Maybe  ...  Maybe  I’ll breed dogs.. or become a Grey Warden! Or bodyguard to the king!”

Anora Mac Tir doesn’t like being wrong.  The happy girl seemed to like Anora’s attention, instead of feeling attacked which unsettled her.

“ _Cousland confidence,”_ Father said on the way here, _“Is legendary.”_


	5. Strings

“My dearest?” He asks himself pacing the room with the feather gently pressed in between his lips, in not quite a bite. His eyes shine deep and passionate, a couple of stars in the night sky.

The room is a tidy collection of old but sturdy things. He has a bed frame that had been in the family longer than his grandfather had with a matching desk of the same age. His father’s dented leather clothing trunk sitting at the end of his bed, and iron weapons rack as old as the castle hanging from the wall across from a built-in stone cubby space for a couple pairs of boots and neatly folded clothing. A dying fire crackles in a clever black stove near the small window, heating the room and but smoke billowing out into the darkness outside. Fergus’ toes curl at the edge of a plaited rag-rug almost touching the cold floor as he sits at his desk.

‘ _My dearest Nathaniel_ ,’ Fergus writes, then pauses, his quill dripping black ink on the parchment. The ‘ _l_ ’ swirls into a deep decorative, playful but elegant curve. Fergus keeps the quill on the parchment for too long, and the ink seeps through into a blot. It was ruined, and he bites his lip, frustrated. The sooty smell of a burned down fire in the dark room prickled his nose, and so Fergus gets up, feeding the fire with the latest iteration of his letter, then bending down to do the same with some nearby logs housed in a metal rack.

“No, it's too--” He breaks into a small, humorless laugh, the thought preposterous. Romantic, Fergus’ thoughts fill in the word he couldn’t bring himself to say. Fergus runs a hand through his greasy hair. It had been a while since he had bathed, as the preparations for travel were extremely time-consuming. With a groan, he collapses to the warm leather chair and leans down to pull another piece of parchment out of a drawer of his well-loved desk.   
He huffs out a puff of air and finally decides on the appropriate greeting.

‘ _Nathaniel_ ,’ He writes, ‘ _I hope you are adjusting to your new life in Starkhaven. Hopefully, it is more warm and friendly than our muddy Ferelden._ ’ He wonders what to say next. Speaking to Nathaniel had always been easy, and writing felt unnecessary when his friend had been but a few hours ride away. As such, he had avoided writing to Nathaniel up until now. And now, he had so much to say, but he had no idea where to start. Writing a letter was a monologue he couldn’t see the ending of, and that went against his nature. Only a letter, with no other responsibilities, could travel far north to Starkhaven.

He moves his quill away avoiding any extra dripping onto his letter. He wants to keep this draft. Write of things he wants to know, He decides, Then of things you want to tell him.

‘ _Delilah and Thomas are well, as far as I can see._ ’ He writes rapidly in a bold but precise hand. His eyebrows furrow in concentration. ‘ _Your father’s anger seems spent with you, so you needn’t fear for them. If I hear anything that would concern you, I will relay it to you, and take any_ ,’ Fergus pauses writing for a moment, frowning, then he continues, ‘ _necessary measures to make sure they are safe_.’

He starts a new paragraph, with an almost imperceptible space between lines.  
‘ _Besides, I think my skill with a sword still outmatches yours_ ,’ He draws a teasing smirk on the page, to note this was a joke, although he was not wrong.

‘ _In other news, My father has been reminding me of our family’s tradition to travel once they are of age. I suppose it is my time soon enough, although I do not know where to go._ ’ Fergus lies.

‘ _I suppose Antiva City would be a lovely place, and I would love to practice my Antivan. Living in a port city could only improve my knowledge and ability to run Highever when Father retires. Mother has friends there, and I think I shall stay with them. Gianfrancesco, in particular, is a very wealthy merchant prince of Antiva._ ’ Fergus decides to leave out the man’s last name, Da Molin. He didn’t want to worry Nathaniel with just how close to the throne the man was getting, better to let his friend think it was an unimportant family.

Neither did he want to spoil his parent’s plans, but still he adds this, hesitantly. ‘He also has a daughter around my age.’ His heart feels heavy. At this point, he was starting to get questions about his lack of family and heirs.

Do I add more? Fergus asks himself, then decides against it. Nathaniel is not a fool, and he can read in between the lines as well as I.

He decides to change the subject to something more palatable, continuing, ‘ _When I leave, I will make sure Moyra looks out for Delilah and Thomas if you have not returned before then. She’s decided to learn daggers, much to Mother’s consternation, and Aedan’s delight. He now gets to practice with his sword and shield with Eleanor all by himself. I think she was inspired by Loghain. She’s doing quite well, which is not much to do with her talent, as much as determination. Delilah occasionally comes over to spar with her. Thomas is as doleful as usual. He’s especially put out over these practice sessions, as he cannot spar with numbers. We all try to improve his mood with sugar cake, and it mostly works._ ’

He doodles a small picture of a dense cake slice dripping with icing, then concludes,‘ _This letter grows unbearably long, and I will not bore you with reading more. I will try to come to Starkhaven soon._ ’  
‘ _Yours_ ’ And Fergus’ quill shakes and scratches it out gently. He signs, a mere, ‘ _Fergus_.’

* * *

  
The night had turned into a surprisingly pleasant, blurry, one with Moyra, a flirty Fergus, and a plot involving cake. Exchanging letters had been promised and followed through. Moyra hadn’t mentioned her questions about Anora’s choices again, after a prim, raging, letter emphasizing ‘the importance of tact’ and the ‘proper etiquette of letter writing’ had been sent off after Anora had seen a dog bite in Moyra’s recent letter. The contents of the letter had been equally offending, demanding that Anora explain how to pick locks. The cake plot had required some talents Anora had surreptitiously learned, and Moyra wouldn’t stop bothering her about them. It was adorable, in the way a badly behaved puppy was.

The thing that Anora remembered most about the night was Moyra’s words. Many times when she closed her eyes, she could see Moyra’s earnest face in the dark, her brown eyes glinting from the reflected light of a far-off party. They bothered Anora more than any of her mother’s warnings of becoming an Orlesian cushion of a woman.

‘People can hurt you easier if you canna fight back,’ Moyra’s words rung in her mind incessantly, only decreasing in intensity until she had managed to find a trainer. Amethyne, an elf whose poverty and dependence on Anora insured she would keep her mouth shut and pretend to be her lady-in-waiting.

This, the memory of Moyra’s warm brown eyes is the thought that distracts Anora from Amethyne’s sword. Amethyne’s exasperated huff as a result of Anora’s daydreaming. Its a sound Anora recognizes immediately, from the frequency that Amethyne uses it.

Before Anora can apologize, a soft peal of laughter rings from across the secluded courtyard. She belatedly realizes that the laughter is from the direction of where her vacant eyes gazed when she was distracted. With an almost-frown, caught before it creased her face, she focuses on the person watching. It was the king-to-be, Cailan.

After the party, Eamon pulled one over on Loghain. He announced his support over giving Loghain control of the young fatherless almost-man, the tragic beautiful apple of Ferelden’s eye. He at once asserted his authority in a way Loghain could not think to remove, making himself seem the broken up uncle of the throne while giving Loghain all of the responsibility and work into making this enigma into a king. Eamon, Cailan’s uncle, had lived with him for a while when Maric was missing and understood the young man better than Loghain. He must have known that Cailan would be truly unbearable for Loghain to deal with. At least, so Loghain had speculated in frustrated rants to Anora.

She hadn’t expected his presence here. She struggled to fit in with the dandy prince’s court--She couldn’t quite fall in love with him like many Ferelden nobles, who twisted into a decidedly, “Orlesian and ridiculous” manner of acting, according to her father. Strong women, perfectly capable warriors, fell ungracefully to try and catch his eye. They composed horrific poems and sang them at Maker-hated hours. Men picked up unfamiliar instruments to try and garner his musical interest, gave him lavish gifts, and impress him with equally terrible ballad singing. He tolerated this with inhuman patience, gorgeous smiles, and praise that only encouraged more. Cailan had caught the eyes and hearts of all of those gathered around him, centered the court a spider in the web of the Orlesian game that Fereldens had been so averse to. There were many dead flies in his nest, nobles after a night of passion. Their hearts had been broken by their slippery king.

A deeply embarrassed blush reddens her sweaty and unkempt face. Oh no, She thinks, irritated, this is not the time and place I want to meet him! She breathes in deeply before calmly smoothing her hair into a more presentable look.

He approaches, leaving the shady open hallway and entering the garden. “Your majesty.” She dips in a very low bow, no familiar dress helpful in making her look delicate.

“My lady, ‘tis a pleasure. May I know your name?” His gleeful blue eyes stare into hers with the intensity of sunlight through a magnifying glass. He was, at once, a paragon of Ferelden ideals, the moral golden boy, who resolved disputes by wine glasses and friendly talk, and a frustrating enigma of learned Orlesian (or perhaps natural) Anora wasn’t quite sure, manners. He was like a strange chord with the remoteness of the sun.

“Anora Mac Tir,” She says, unsettled, her eyes dropping to look at his lips, curved like a bent bow into a blinding grin.

“Mac Tir is hard to rhyme, but, Anora-Anora, graceful Anora, sword in her face, Anora!” His voice winds gracefully, a mocking nightingale. She found it immensely unbearable, the casual breezy smiles and messiness, the dirt of the Couslands immediately preferable to the smug arrogance of Cailan Theirin. This, the man I decided to marry?

  
“ _Machinations_ ,” Her mother’s voice reminds her sternly of the foolishness of everything she had worked for.

Anora sets her teeth. “I suppose,” she says cooly, “To prevent such unfortunate rhyming, I’ll insist you call me Mac Tir. And since you use father’s first name so liberally, you won’t mistake me for him.” Her voice turns into her familiar sharp tone of crushed glass and ice, normally reserved for people who crossed her. Anora was annoyed out of politeness and angered enough not to care about this ruining her chances with the independent Cailan.

“I suppose, I must do as you say, you taskmaster, Mac Tir, so like your father,” He sing-songs a lone eyebrow lifting. His interest grows more pronounced, and he steps closer.

 _A man as musical as he had no right to be as proficient with a sword and with his mouth_ , Anora thinks with a stormy frown, smelling the slightly spicy scent of his cologne. _That taskmaster perception is going to have to change._ A more reasonable part of her mind demands. _Cailan would not want to marry Father. Hopefully_.

“You’re the king-to-be.” She says bluntly, taking cues from a far away Cousland, whose charms she seemed unable to forget. “...And telling you what to do seems a rather trying experience if you take my father’s frustration with you as truth.”

“Perhaps you have other things in mind, then Mac Tir,” He says, lilting voice not rhyming, Anora notices. Cailan’s eyes seem to now, actually focus on hers, eyes scanning up and down her body like he was seeing her for the first time.

I have his attention. Anora thinks dully, crossing her arms protectively. Her mind whirrs with possibility. Mac Tir. She wonders. A way to piss off father, to carry on with me? She considers, putting two and two together. Loghain had never mentioned any desire to marry her to Cailan, and Loghain was infamously protective of her. And the final fact, Cailan was a notorious player. Anora smiles back at him, she would make sure there never was a mention that Loghain approved of her match with Cailan.

“Yes,” She says slowly, inching her gaze up and down his statuesque body in the same way he had done with her.

“Spar with me?” He asks, as casually as if he was asking her to dance. “You could use some help.”

“Try not to get distracted.” She says a fine stiletto edge gracing her voice but accepting the challenge and shrugging. Sweat drips down her arms, and she feels her own focus sharpen.

“I’m not the one who lost my last bout staring at a wildly handsome man,” He teases.

In response, Anora rips her sword out of its sheath.

* * *

 

The locked box tempted all of Moyra’s attention away from their upcoming trip. Stolen at the party, Anora had opened it easily. Moyra could not make heads or tails of the lockpicks Anora had sent her. She had been at it for hours, sitting precariously at the bottom of her bed, a soft thing that consistently attempted to swallow her and never let her out every time she had to wake for training.

The new boy, Aedan Gilmore, plucked at her sleeve. “Yes, what?” She says, fist clenching at the lockpick so that she doesn’t drop it. Her voice is unusually grumpy at the interruption. Moyra had thought she had heard a click at long last, only to be jostled. She softens her stony gaze. The young man had been through much, and he flinched at her anger. Bann Loren, his father, had barely tolerated the boy growing up with his cheating mother, and Aedan’s presence here was the last straw of his patience snapping.

“It’s time to go.” He says, relaxing into a smile at her non-threatening look.

“I’ve packed nothing!” She protests, gesturing with her lockpick at the still very-cluttered room. Drying plants hung from the ceiling, at a growing corner of the room. Pots of living plants sat near the window, and the grime from dirt was smeared on the bare floor. Clothes were scattered everywhere, and knives were stuck into various pieces of furniture--one hung awkwardly in a dilapidated tapestry depicting a woman hunting wolves.

Aedan smiles at her, holding an almost overflowing burlap sack. He avoids looking at the lounging wardog and large sleeping grizzly behind her.

Moyra doesn’t particularly appreciate him going through her room, but given she hadn’t noticed him doing so, decided it was fair game. “Thank you,” She puts the box into the sack and tucks the lockpick back into her belt. She ruffles his hair, and his mouth transforms into a toothy grin.

“Perhaps I can open the larder to find you some pie, for on the road.” She suggests, eyes sharp. Aedan and Thomas Howe got along well in the department of sweets. “Maybe I can wiggle open that lock when Nan’s not looking.”

Mallory, the dog, pricks its ears and thumps her tail. _Larder!_


	6. Bears and Bees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter does have some mildly disturbing/graphic imagery, but I believe it isn't enough to warrant tagging my entire work yet. Thank you all! This chapter was beta-d (spelling?) by my friend, who if she comments I will tag.
> 
> (I don't have immediate access to your account name, dude. Apparently, I can't see who subscribes to me.)

Redcliffe Castle-- An unwelcoming arling at the heart of Ferelden. ‘Twas a joyous occasion in the castle, for a son was born, regardless of the unfriendly thunder. It was a rather less joyous occasion for a few bedraggled nobles arriving, there to congratulate Eamon and Isolde.

 

Fergus’ family trudges inside the castle, entering the black iron jaws of the portcullis. Fergus however, dismounts and makes a beeline for the stables, with the rest of the horses trotting after him, eager to find shelter. He was the one designated by his bratty little sister and amused mother to bring the horses in from the storm. Fergus had agreed easily--to spend the night in the stables instead of smiling pleasantly at other nobles it was a logical choice, as his plan was to leave as soon as he woke to meet up with an Antivan caravan headed home. An added bonus was avoiding being sidelined out of conversations, or worse, being included as his parents talked to nobles he didn’t care about, about an alliance he didn’t trust them on. Besides that, his blood-sense of the people in his party was getting to an almost unbearable calling. His urge to use the forbidden magic called to him as he imagined the ripping out the vocal cords of the grating bard’s neck, and feel the warm, sopping mess in his hands. He quietly hopes in Arl Eamon’s sterling reputation-- no stable boy would meet him tonight.

 

He sighs, the blood-sense gradually lessening to a throbbing headache behind his eyes. As Fergus steps into the dry barn, a sense of relief from the downpour reminds him of just how cold, wet, and sore he was. He imagines lighting a fire and letting its warmth wash over him. Mallory, _a patently stupid name for a warhound_ , he thinks, yips at his feet, also happy to escape the bone-chilling rain.

 

He leans over, too tired to properly crouch, and pats the dog on the head. His own dog, Fang, is already ahead and settling down in the stables. Fergus hopes that there was enough room for the horses. It was a small party, and he leads three horses. The few men-at-arms who had accompanied them walked alongside and were likely happily ensconced in the barracks.

 

Legs almost tensing with knotted muscles, Fergus forces himself to properly stable the horses in some of the empty stalls between the weak light of burned down wall torches. Finding himself at the opposite edge of the long stables, he decides to climb the ladder to the top, where the hay is stored. He crawls for a few moments in the almost absolute darkness, before he flings himself, leaving his wet armor to rust, into the biggest clump of hay. His eyes are almost completely closed when he falls into the pile, face first.

 

“ _AOW!”_ The pile bellows something within it shoving at the heavy, wet, metal thing that had landed on their cozy warm hay pile and soaking it with water.

 

“Andraste’s BLOODY TITS!” Fergus shrieks, fire flashing from his hands which he stifles as fast as he can. A stable boy, by the looks of him, emerges from the pile Fergus flung himself at rather like an angry gopher. Luckily, nothing catches aflame in the hay-filled stable. With a frustrated groan, he forces his aching body to move and roll off of the scrawny blond. He pinches the bridge of his nose, squinting at the boy, and hoping he didn’t see the flash of fire. “Er. Didn’t see you there.” He says, sleepily, eyes drooping back downwards as the shock wears off. His throbbing headache from earlier, that overwhelming sense of where the people in his party were, the birds in the trees, his second hearing, kicked in again.

 

He could ‘see’ the boy, his hair and hay sticking about in a small corona of messy locks, looks frozen. Something cold, jewelry, Fergus assumes, glitters against the boy’s chest. Before Fergus can decide what to do about his secret being suddenly exposed to some common stable boy, the boy starts to apologize.

 

“Ser…” His head bobs, a bit too large for his body like a child’s bad drawing of a person. His clever eyes glance at the crest sitting on Fergus’ shield, but tense with confusion as if he can’t place it.

 

 _As well he might not,_ Fergus thinks, vaguely distracted with a desire to sink into the hay and drift into the Fade.

 

However, the blond boy’s voice cracks, creaking like ancient, ignored wooden slats in the Couslands ceiling, “I’m so sorry that I didn’t.. I should have been awake. Your horse--” His voice starts speeding up, and as the boy keeps talking, words crashing into each other like a disastrous Tevinter chariot race, “Nothing weird happened here. No...thing. Just imagined magic. That’s all, right?” The boy’s hand dips to the dagger all Fereldens carried continually, then jerked upward to his other hands, raised in a surrender. “I didn’t see anything! I’ll go!”

 

 _Fuuuck,_ Fergus thinks, feeling the boy’s heart race with his slowly uncoiling magic perception, leaking into the sleeping horses below him. His exhaustion refuses to let him up, to light a torch. _He’s terrified._

 

With a grunt, Fergus rolls over, his back on the hay, and looking up at the boy. He says, “Worry yourself not. ‘Tis a late hour. This stable has room, and I’d not send you out into a storm.” With his discomfort, his mind’s focus blurs. He vaguely hopes his tone has the same quality of soothing small animals that his sister’s mastered, and he’s barely used.

 

“Yes, ser. Thank you.” The young man says. Fergus can tell that he’s tense, a vein visibly appearing on his neck, scarred hands clenched in fists. His face smiles defensively. Fergus waits a moment for him to say something else, or to move, but he waits for Fergus to do the same.

 

“I am no maleficarum.” He says, trying again for the ‘soothing small animals’ tone, tired voice slurring the words slightly into one another,  “Nor would I hurt a stable lad who happened ‘ta see something he shouldna’” _Although... listening to people’s blood rush through their bodies make it  weirdly tempting._ He pushes the thought away, gently beaconing for the boy to sit down. The boy swallows, looking strangely resistant to something, and continues to stand straight at attention. _Or was it stubbornness?_ Fergus muses.

 

He tries another tactic, smiling at the boy and trying for a friendly, nonthreatening introduction. “I’m Fergus. It's nice to meet you,” He tries his best to sound unthreatening, the opposite of the terror mages of the stories parents told naughty children.

 

“Alistair.” The boy says with a deep, noble type bow, but his quiet demeanor reminded Fergus more of a servant than a noble, even a bastard noble had more dignity. “Although Ali-stepped-on might be more appropriate,” He mutters under his breath.

 

Fergus slowly grins, muffling his snort with a slight cough, then a grunt to show he heard.

 

 _But why is the ward of Guerrin, sleeping in the stables?_ Fergus thinks, senses sloshing about the heartbeat drums of the stable. He can feel young Alistair’s eyes dart away, staring at the wet hay just beyond Fergus’ face.

 

“I’ve stolen your hay pile, and I’m afraid it’s soaked through,” Fergus says, trying to brighten his tone, and moving away from the topic. He drops his stare at the young man, looking down at his hands to curl his fingers into the hay for warmth. He continues, “If you so feel, Alistair, you can fetch one ‘o the packs on my horses and take a blanket for yourself tonight. Take some bread and wine as well.” This part was a demand, Alistair’s blood felt thin, weak from lack of food, like an uncared for feral animal.

 

Alistair leaves his sight with another mute bow. Fergus closes his eyes and lies back, not bothering to insist on his orders, or make sure they were followed. Questions pelted his mind much like the rain-- going over his head before he falls asleep. _Not all is well in Redcliffe_ , his mind warns, a last slip of reason before he slips into the Fade.

* * *

 

At last, Anora had found time away from court, and courting Cailan, to visit Redcliffe. Moyra Cousland, now her six years long beloved friend, had been nearby for several months, but only today had she torn herself away from the engrossing city events.

 

The crisp apple tart tasted perfectly spiced, and the cool fall air of Ferelden made it the perfect time to be outside. It was the one time of the year that the mud was perfect. It was only almost frozen, cold enough not to stick to one’s boots, but not frozen enough to be slippery.

 

Anora couldn’t help but smirk at Moyra, who had just foolishly stuck the freshly baked thing into her mouth, hopping around with her mouth open and blowing hot air out. Mallory bounces around her, leaping with too much momentum, trying to catch any flying bits of hot chewed pastry that escaped her mouth.

 

Anora drinks in the silly spectacle, her own tart a few small bites in. Moyra had grown to be as tall as she, with defined muscles and a few light scars on her tanned bare arms. Her northern, dark, hair was braided into a few-days-old corona wrapped around her head. She was no longer a stick figure in a man’s shirt that worked as a dress, but the aspect of her that caught Anora’s attention what stayed the same. Anora had worked quietly with her hands when Cailan had been practicing his ballads, drawing that same face over and over as she read the surprisingly prolific spy reports from both her father and Cailan.

 

She sometimes felt like she was a fly on the wall of almost every noble house in Ferelden, with Moyra’s letters filling in the holes that those men’s networks failed. The Couslands, too, had spies, or so she assumed. It was a mostly unimportant question that irritated her and amused Cailan, who was pleased with Bryce’s unwavering support and pleasant personality--a lovely break from Eamon and Loghain’s constant and continual bickering. From Moyra’s letters, she couldn’t tell, whether these pleasant Couslands had either extremely loyal people or an elite spy network of their own. According to what little she mentioned in the letters, Moyra was almost completely uninvolved with the practical mechanics of ruling Highever. She was currently focused on her final training here in Redcliffe, with the notorious thief, Vestel Tabris.

 

“It's hard to imagine you ever being sneaky, hopping around like that, with tart flying everywhere…” Anora teases.

 

“I’m not eating tarts when I’m working, Anora!” Moyra’s light-hearted smile warms Anora’s autumn-chilled heart. Moyra swipes at her, much like Anora’s own cat, her hand lightly grazes Anora’s own hair, blond and neatly curled spilling down around her shoulders. Heat rushes to Anora’s cheeks, and she senses something, a possibility of something more _._

 

“Oh, wait, here. I’ve gone and spit on you, now.” She winces and in between one blink, Moyra was an arms length away, then an inch away from Anora’s face. “Mind if I get that?” She asks, thumb pressed against Anora’s cheek, keeping it steady. Anora is suddenly and painfully aware of their close proximity, and she can hear her own beating heart, as her eyes are drawn into the gentle brown of Moyra’s.

 

Anora thinks of Cailan, and the strings she is pulling him along: the dance, the waiting game, and longing the twisting mechanical clock of to-do lists checked off. She was fond of him in the way a farmer loves a prized cow. When she looked into his eyes, she had always wished she was with Moyra, whose hands were now lingering on Anora’s face, her body a warm wall pushing all space between them away.

 

The sensation of reality returning to her dreams felt like she was standing at the edge of a cliff. The ancient arpeggio of the abyss, the deep desire, allowed gravity to drag her down. Moyra’s lips were a ground moving up to meet her, and their kiss was like magic. Anora’s mind fills with sensations as her eyes shut--the taste of sweet honey apples, spice, and cinnamon with leaves falling into her hair and bark against her back.  


That kiss and the warm, lazy, afternoon with Moyra’s hands in her hair, flower crowns, and dirt from Moyra’s hands that ground into her dress all ended as quickly as the passing clouds gathering into another gathering thunderstorm. Anora stayed in Redcliffe for far longer than she planned, enjoying the kisses, the touching as plentiful as the rain. That fall was her season of first love. Her emotions, for once, were free-flowing, an easy passion, with longing when Moyra was away and relief when she returned, but one thing that never returned to Anora was the key she kept on her, the one that unlocked the far-away chest, that Moyra for years had been trying to open.

 

_ But all seasons come to an end. The chords of her fate were already tied, wrapped around her belly, and ever tightening. Morning sickness ripped the two lovers apart and swept Anora immediately into a marriage with the young King. Perhaps her first love lasted longer, Ferelden’s fate would have been freed from Anora’s. _


End file.
